This is merely to fulfil my not-yet confirmed promise of blogging every night. I anticipate that I will never quite resolve this until post-Year 12, as for the most part, my time is taken up by something which will rear its fat, ugly, Voldemort-esque head in two (!) days.
L’école.
FUCK IT, BIATCH!
… declares rebellious, angst-ridden Bethany, speaking only in a contradictory combination of incomprehensible mutterings and sporadic proclamations. Just fuck it all, and be a hooker. Although a high-class one, since I believe in you. I mean, me. I mean, whatever.
Alas, sensible (or should I say, the Bethany who just doesn’t want to be a hooker full-stop, fortunately the one who is the most prominent. I doubt I am, I’m just a really really amazing liar. I’m not kidding you. Not many people know this, which must mean I completely win at forcing people into some sort of vague gullibility. Posting this on my blog probably will halt this) Bethany will say no. You’re a mindless strumpet. What’s the harm in sticking it out another year? Sure it’s going to be the hardest year of your life next year (R, A-R Bethany threatens to appear) and after all… those dreams of being either a UN interpreter or a struggling writer/humourless comic don’t emerge as a result of sleeping your way to the top. I mean, my way. I mean, whatever.
Point being, I’m going to do my best to not care about the fact that my ¾ exam is a matter of weeks away and my other exams threatening me like some sort of wild pig suspended from a rickety ceiling. I will, however, say that having deleted Facebook and completely stumped everyone who knew I was addicted, I will probably kid myself into being productive. Oh, and who knew that tomorrow will be one of my last warm weekday lunches? (Sure, we have a microwave, but the ‘mass line’ – whereby we can’t give up and have to motivate each other not to resort to cold potato soup – is about as off-putting as cold potato soup itself) Warm lunches are seriously underrated, especially when everyone around you is eating them and you’re left with some sort of yeast slathered on cardboard. Get your mind out of there. Our national food is a yeast extract. Deal with it, our land is girt by euphemisms and not this “sea” thingamajig you speak of. Desal ftw!
Oh, and for the record, I will never, under any circumstances, change my pen name to iSnack 2.0.
1 tokens of appreciation:
Hang on, I was the one that first said that hot lunches are very underrated (on FB). . . thought theif, keep your nasty mits of my intellectual property!! I'm liking the imagery here of suspended wild pigs - would make a brilliant pinata, think of the pathetic little squeals it would make *MWAHAHA* High class hooker? That can be our fall-back, we can do a routine together that involves chocolate, copious amounts of gyrating and your shiny bass guitar :D
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